


'til death do us part (and i'll make it a swift one)

by eyemoji



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Multi, hohhhh my god i'm so excited for this, they're both too gay for that, this is NOT rachel/kepler i repeat NOT rachel/kepler
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2018-12-06 15:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11603703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyemoji/pseuds/eyemoji
Summary: What happens to a pair of best enemies, two of Goddard’s finest, when they’re forced to go undercover together for a mission that’s taking entirely too long? What happens in any good faux-marriage au, of course: they stay enemies. They might even manage to hate each other just a little bit more. Plus, annoyingly mutual pining, Rachel’s vegan phase, and strawberry cheesecake without a sufficient amount of cyanide.





	1. i had a good title but i forgot it and i'm pissed, which rachel also is

**Author's Note:**

> title creds to @gortysproject. go check out her work; they're good fics, brent.

For all his talk and patronizing demeanor, Mr Cutter is not Rachel’s boss. At best, he is her corporate equal. Privately, Rachel thinks that the Division of Special Projects ought to hold more sway than Public Relations. None of this is to say that Rachel would ever dare disobey one of Cutter’s loosely disguised orders; she values her life just a bit too much for that, but it does add to her omnipresent annoyance when he decides to waltz into her office unannounced and perch himself on the edge of her desk.

 

“Rachel. How are you? I need your help.”

 

Rachel doesn’t bother trying to disguise her exasperation.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Ah ah ah,” Cutter tuts, and Rachel doesn’t have to look up to picture the infuriating smirk that is undoubtedly paired with his smug tone. He does this Every. Single. Time. 

 

“What is it--  _ sir _ ? You know, in some places, they’d call that kinky.”

 

“Well, Rachel,  _ some _ places don’t have Goddard Futuristics’  _ reputation _ , do they?”

 

“Sir, are you flirting with me?” She isn’t serious. She isn’t serious and they both know that, so Cutter smiling and taking the joke only serves to thicken the puddle of dread that’s started pooling at the base of her stomach. In her experience, the happier Cutter sounds, the worse is whatever’s on the other end of the metaphorical axe hanging over her head. Well.  _ Usually  _ metaphorical. 

 

“Special Projects has been quite the talk of the company recently. Refining faster than light travel to over thirty times the speed of light? Good on you, Rachel!”

 

“Sir, what--”   
  
“In fact, the VX4s, the new AI Trial standards, the longevity testing from the biomedical lab-- nearly everything Special Projects has been working on for the last few years-- they’re all wrapping up, wouldn’t you say?”

 

“Well, yes, but--”

 

“Which leaves  _ you _ , Rachel, you busy bee, with a little more time than usual, am I right?” He pauses, cocks his head, and his eyes, those cold, cold, unfeeling eyes, pierce straight through Rachel.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you haven’t taken a proper vacation in four years?”

 

Rachel’s face drains just the tiniest bit of color. In all her time since becoming Director, she’s never once been truly afraid of Mr Cutter-- she’s figured that for all her talk, her interests are aligned with his enough, and her rank within the company high enough to keep her off of his radar. He gives her orders, she complains about them, she gets them done. She’ll snark about them afterwards, too, but what does that matter, with her efficiency? It’s a loving relationship. Although, she thinks, maybe she’s miscalculated just a bit. Maybe she’s forgotten to compensate for the fact that, oh yeah, _Mr Cutter doesn’t have a heart, let alone the ability to love_ , and she must have unwittingly crossed too far over the line somewhere in the last week, because _that sure sounds like a threat._ _Or a promise_. 

It’s a fine distinction, at Goddard Futuristics.

 

She casts her mind back in a frantic effort to remember what she’s gone and done this time, but her brain’s a little rusty on how to fish. It’s been a  _ long _ time since the last time she’s had to do this, and a small part of her, the part that warns her when the end of her life might be a little too close for comfort, her own personal canary in the coal mine that is the twisted inner workings of Goddard Futuristics, is singing its tiny heart out in an attempt to warn her of the incredibly dangerous delicacy of the situation she’s suddenly been spun into. As if the rest of her doesn’t already know. 

 

The only situation her brain keeps bringing up is the one she’s been trying to ignore the most, not because of the immense glee she’d felt about taking the newly-promoted  _ Major _ Warren J Kepler down a significant number of pegs, but in spite of it.  She’s not unaware that Kepler’s in Cutter’s favor, a fact that she thought would no longer be quite as true after the incident she’s thinking of, but which, considering it resulted in a  _ promotion _ , seems to only have intensified, and as she’s thinking this she starts to wonder if the time has finally come when his importance outstrips hers. Knowing him, she doubts it, but part of the answer also relies on Cutter’s own personal brand of thinking, and  _ that _ she’s never quite been able to predict. 

 

All of this musing is compressed into a fraction of time not much slower than the average breath, and there’s not too much of a delay between Cutter’s words and hers as she smoothly responds,

 

“That would be correct, yes.”

 

“Doesn’t the thought of some  _ gorgeous _ white sand beaches and some glittering crystal blue waves  _ really _ sound appealing?” He sighs, in faux-wistfulness. 

 

Rachel holds back the urge to ask if that’s the new scenery in Hell;  _ have they undergone renovations? _

 

Cutter continues, “What I wouldn’t do for someone to just offer me an all expenses covered, fun-filled vacation to a fresh, inviting scene, just out of the goodness of their heart.”

 

“Quite frankly sir, I don’t want to know.”

 

“Oh,  _ Rachel,  _ you always were the funny one. Now, here I am, offering you what just might be the best deal of your stressful little life, and all I’m asking from you in return is your help on a little...matter. Now, what do you say?”

 

“What’s the mission?”

 

He sighs.

 

“Manners, Miss Young. But if you insist. The details are all in here.” He pulls out a thin folder, taped closed, and tosses it to her. She catches it, more out of reflex than anything else, her eyes still trained on Cutter. 

 

“You’ll report to the front of the building at 5 am tomorrow for one final, mm, let’s call it a  _ briefing. _ You’re allowed one suitcase, so pack wisely.” He winks, and Rachel blinks, bemused. 

 

His exit is so sudden, so unexpected, that she nearly forgets to ask the most important question. She calls it out anyways, to Cutter’s rapidly receding form:

 

“Sir? What’s the catch?”

 

He gives no indication that he’s heard her.

 

Rachel sighs, turns back to her desk, where she’d unceremoniously dumped Cutter’s information packet. It isn’t marked with the usual “CONFIDENTIAL” in bright red ink, which only makes her eye it more. Will this all really end up as trivial as Cutter promised? She doubts it. An unmarked file only means more mysteries for someone to unravel. She picks it up, turns it over, delicately breaks the tape, careful not to chip her nail polish. She is, after all a perfectionist. _ And perfect is  _ exactly  _ how this job will go, no matter how “trivial” it turns out to be, _ she thinks, pulling out the contents of the file.

 

There isn’t much inside. Two pieces of paper, a pen, and a tube of lipstick. The lipstick is named “Chilled Brandy” and seems like Cutter’s usual idea of a joke, or an attempt at familiarity that falls flat, at least with Rachel. The pen is cheap, a plastic black ink ballpoint, and altogether utterly too normal, which is why Rachel sets it aside for further examination later. Then the two pieces of paper. One of them is a plane ticket to McCarran International. The other is a fairly standard mission briefing, and although it’s been a while since the last time Rachel’s seen one of these, it’s familiar enough. Target: a _ Mr Damian Hortsborough _ . Location(s):  _ Las Vegas, Nevada, United States.  _ She raises an eyebrow and represses a snort.  _ Hardly white sand beaches _ . She skips over Mission Details and Background Briefing, opting to read them over on the plane instead. Her eyes scan a few other nonessential details and land firmly at the bottom of the page, and a noise like a horrible amalgamation of a choked laugh and scream slips out of her mouth.

 

Partner(s):  _ Major Warren J Kepler. _


	2. pissed becomes angry. so does kepler. oh look, it's jacobi. nice.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a wedding announcement and an unexpected guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cutter is a happy man in a sad suit. kepler is quite the opposite. and jacobi? jacobi's just sad.

Against all odds, Rachel finds herself outside the Special Projects building at exactly 5 am. When she arrives, there’s a figure leaning against the grey cinderblock wall, and even if Rachel didn’t have a shoot-on-sight mentality ingrained in her brain for this particular man, his lazy, lounging stance would have betrayed him from a mile away. Warren Kepler. Immediately, a stopwatch switches on in her brain, counting up the seconds until he becomes a more attractive target than the actual man they’re supposed to go after.

 

“You’re late,” he says, as soon as she’s within earshot. Rachel resists the urge to check her wristwatch and instead turns up the scorn levels in her frown. _It’s too early in the morning for this._

 

“No, I’m not.”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, stretching and giving her a smile so nearly as ingenuine as Mr Cutter’s that for a moment, Rachel is almost impressed. “You see, _Strategic Intelligence_ doesn’t tend to cut things quite so close. It gives off...the wrong impression.”

 

“You know, Major, technically, I _am_ your superior. I’d be very careful about what I was saying if I was you.”

 

“Ah yes….. _Director_ Young. Unfortunately for you, I don’t consider _administrators_ my superiors.”

 

“And yet here she is, back in the field,” comes a familiar voice. Kepler nearly jumps, controls himself, and pales as he realizes who’s speaking.

 

“Mr Cutter-- sir. I didn’t-- hear you--”

 

“Lucky for us that Rachel’s being such a darling and agreeing to take on this mission, don’t you think Warren?”

 

Kepler flounders for a second.

 

“Uh-- yes, sir-- that is, uh, _yes_ , what… a gem.”

 

He straightens his spine and pulls himself upright, trains his eyes firmly on Cutter, waiting for his orders, and the only thing he really has left to do, thinks Rachel, is drop to his knees and _beg_ . It’s disgusting. Does he ever say what he really thinks, around Cutter? Does he even have thoughts of his own, when he’s not deviating from _direct_ orders handed down from his immediate superior, a maverick with just the barest sense of direction, a _diamond in the rough_ , according to Cutter? They have too many of these types these days, at Goddard Futuristics, what with Kepler’s newest recruit worshipping the very ground he walks on, stars in his eyes as if Kepler’s taken him out of the bunker and shown him the universe. It’s not too far off from what actually happened, she supposes, but at the same time she doubts he would have had the same reaction if his guiding light had been anyone but the Major. _Not that he needs a bigger ego._

 

“Rachel? You with us?” and Rachel realizes she’s been too lost in mentally dissecting Kepler to pay attention to what Cutter’s been saying, a dangerous thing under the most innocuous of circumstances.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

She can feel her face flushing as Kepler looks over at her out of the corner of his eye, a smug grin plastered across his face. Whatever. She’ll show him.

 

“As I was saying,” and Cutter’s voice is far too bright for 5 am on a Friday morning, “Vegas is popular with newlyweds this time of year.”

 

Rachel blinks. Inhales. Blinks again. Gets it.

 _No. No, no, no, no, Mr Cutter, anything but this, god I’ll take anything, any_ one _; Jesus Christ he’s definitely pissed; what the_ hell _did I do to deserve this?_

 

She and Kepler speak at the same time, “ _Sir--_!”

 

“Buh buh buh, no arguing. You two will conduct yourself like the professionals you claim to be, or I _will_ find two other people to do this job.” The threat is so thinly veiled it’s hard even for Rachel to tell if it’s really there.

 

“The only time I want to hear even the tiniest _peep_ about you _not_ acting in such a manner is if it’s a complaint about how utterly, terribly, disgustingly in love the two of you are. Believe me when I say _both_ of you are replaceable. Warren,” and one quick glance at Kepler’s face, horrified and slowly turning red and mouth all poised to argue-- _so he_ does _have a mind of his own--_ reveals exactly where Cutter’s disapproval stems from, “I want you to think _very_ carefully about what you’re about to say next. Because if you’re wasting my time, well--” He breaks off and lets the threat hang in the air. Kepler shuts his mouth. _God_ , Rachel wishes she had that power.

 

She tunes out the rest of the briefing, figuring that whatever she misses, her new _husband_ can fill in for her on the drive to airport. Eurgh. The word even _tastes_ weird in her mouth, and not just because it’s Kepler she’s supposedly married to. The last time Rachel had a crush on a boy was _never_ , and the last time she still hoped she would get one someday was when she was…. six? eight? thirteen? All her childhood days blur together whenever she tries to think about them. She suspects part of this is a shielding mechanism, her brain’s way of protecting the young, mostly innocent her of years past from the sharp, honed blade of a woman that she’s become. Not that she wouldn’t do it all over again. She’s smart, she’s successful, she’s relatively straightlaced, all things that are, in the end, absolutely worth the sacrifices she’s had to make-- both for herself and for those around her. On the other hand, one minute in a room with Kepler and it’s easy to feel like that whatever twisted implement he is doesn’t seem to have ever had anything resembling the barest concept of a childhood. Rachel rather prefers it that way. After all, smooth knives stab cleaner. And Rachel has never liked leaving behind messes.

 

The drive to the airport is filled with a silence so thick, Rachel could slather it on a scone. They avoid looking at each other, Kepler focusing all his attention on the wheel, Rachel all hers out the window. The surrounding scenery is nice enough, she supposes-- for Florida. It’s a sunny day, with skies bluer than ought to be fair, considering the time she’s having. There’s little to no wind as far as she can discern. Neither of them reaches for the radio.

 

But all things do eventually break. And Rachel kind of regrets not listening to Cutter for those last few moments, for having to turn to Kepler for an explanation, because now she’s being forced to ask that of him and she doesn’t think she’ll be able to stand the mandatory gloating that’ll accompany whatever he tells her. Knowing him, he might even withhold critical information, although she hopes for the sake of the mission, at least, he won’t.

 

“So. Kepler. Did I miss anything particularly important from Cutter during those last five minutes?”

 

He turns to look at her, an expression of mock horror covering his face. She wants to slap it off, but that won’t get her anywhere, _literally_ , considering he’s the one driving.

 

“You….weren’t listening?”

 

“Some of us were too busy trying not to be permanently traumatized by the whole you’re-married-now-go-gamble-like-a-good-girl revelation.”

 

“Are...you...serious?”

 

 _Give me strength._ “No, I was actually overjoyed when I heard the news. Marrying you has been my biggest, wildest, and most secret of dreams. _Of course_ I’m being serious! Now, if you could stop playing games and flaunting your ego all over the place for _one_ minute of your insufferable little life, and tell me what oh-so-important information I’m missing out on, that would just be a _dream_.”

 

There’s another silence, broken by nothing except Kepler coughing.

 

“Well?”

 

“I...don’t...know,” he admits, “I… may… have not been… listening…”

 

“ _What?”_

 

“ _You weren’t either!”_

 

“That’s _different!_ ”

 

“ _How?!_ ”

 

She doesn’t have a response, not really, and resigns herself to fuming in the passenger seat as Kepler pulls off the highway, all the way to the airport.

 

They find out what _crucial information_ they had missed pretty quickly after that. Halfway down the hall to baggage check-in, they’re accosted by a vaguely familiar man in a surprisingly muted but ridiculously large Hawaiian shirt and loafers. It’s Kepler’s turn to let out a choked gargle of surprise.

 

“ _Jacobi?_ What--”

 

“They told me to meet you here, sir. I take it you’re Rachel?”

 

He takes off a pair of sunglasses that Rachel suspects he thinks are cool when in reality they’re… well, they’re just not. Childish, at best.

 

“And _why_ , pray tell, did they send you?” Kepler grits out. Rachel raises an eyebrow.

 

“I thought you’d be delighted to have your most devoted lackey following you around Sin City for a week or two, _Warren,_ ” she says, leaning in and pouring all the sugar, honey, and corn syrup she can into her voice. She’s smiling, and she knows he knows what’s she’s going for, what she’s trying to imply about just how professional he keeps his professional life.

 

“It’s not… that simple…”

 

“Well, _I_ think it is. I think you two will have plenty of… bonding time.” She uncharacteristically slings an arm around Jacobi’s shoulders. “It’ll be good for you.” She’s particularly proud of the smile she musters up. It’s nearly as good as Kepler’s this morning, nearly _nearly_ as good as Cutter’s trademark. She hopes it’s as dangerous as she feels.

 

Jacobi squirms a little under her arm. _He’s nervous; what a waste._

 

“Experience.”

 

“What?”

 

“Experience,” he says again, turning to Kepler. “You asked why they sent me. They said experience-- sir.”

 

Kepler pretends not to hear, but Rachel’s sharp eyes catch the way he swallows, a little thicker than usual, how he doesn’t meet either of their eyes. Then her gaze drops. She catches what she hadn’t been able to see under the grey light of the morning, what she hadn’t noticed during their exasperating and frankly exhausting car ride here.

 

“ _What_ are you _wearing?!”_ She turns to Jacobi. “ _What is he wearing?”_

 

Jacobi grins, and the smile is toothy and sunny and reminds her of a shark cutting through its home waters.

 

“Last week’s tourist.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so while going through old scripts for this chapter, i realized jacobi doesn't actually get recruited until two years after kepler gets the promotion to major...so for the sake of this fic we're going to suspend continuity a bit so we can get the good gay we all need and deserve. thamks.
> 
> catch me @ justasmalltownai on tumble.


	3. jacobi is sleepy and kepler is Strong; also, rachel continues to be pissed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> don't sleep with kepler, in one sense of the word (yes there will be a chapter where another sense applies, and _no_ , rachel will not be involved at _all_ , thank you very much.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: let's start this new fic!! which you're super excited about!! and let's make it multi-chapter, so a project for the long haul!! and let's focus on it so you can update regularly!!  
> me, or the bitch inside me: actually let's write two chapters then go on a binge of one-offs and ignore this because you can't get past the first three sentences of the third chapter.

After checking in their bags with surprisingly minimal stress (Rachel only had to snap at the lady behind the counter once,) and making their way through security with, again, a surprisingly comfortable silence (how Kepler didn’t get strip-searched, Rachel still doesn’t know,) the trio makes their way to the gate. Rachel makes a cursory sweep of the area, knowing full well that Kepler’s doing the same, and Jacobi too, possibly, if he’s the type to stick to his training. There’s nothing interesting nearby, at least not that she can see-- which isn’t much, considering the tottering pile of bags that had been unceremoniously dumped in her lap as Kepler had stretched and sat down with a sigh. It’s easy to see, glancing around, that none of them slept well last night; the dark circles shrouding their eyes gives them away, no matter how early Kepler had shown up back at Goddard. Whatever camaraderie Jacobi had projected back when he’d met them outside security is now completely gone; he looks like he’s about to fall asleep any second. The only thing keeping him from doing so, Rachel suspects, is the prospect of doing his snoozing on Kepler’s shoulder-- Kepler, seated next to Jacobi, is wearing a scowl darker than the thunderclouds gathering outside the airport’s sweeping windows.  _ If the flight is delayed,  _ Rachel thinks,  _ he just might kill someone. _

 

The flight, thankfully, is not delayed, and Rachel isn’t forced to spend a second more inside the dreary, soul-sucking airport than she has to. They board the flight, settle nicely into their first class seats, of which two are together and one is separate on the other side of the aisle. She slips into the far seat before either of the other two can protest. Neither of them do, although Jacobi’s heartbeat seems to thrum a little faster than usual as Kepler steps back to let him brush past into the window seat. His knuckles are white on the seat, Rachel notes, as he stares determinedly out of the window. Kepler taps his shoulder, reaches across to push the shutter up. Jacobi jumps.

 

“The window isn’t open, Mr Jacobi,” and he’s back to his usual lazy drawl as a proper smile rolls across his face for the first time since Rachel walked into his voice that morning, “Unless you happen to enjoy looking at blank walls?”

 

“It’s called modern art,” Jacobi mumbles, cheeks burning, eyes still lowered to avoid meeting Kepler’s. Rachel feels a twinge of sympathy for him as he squirms backwards into the seat, squeezing his eyes shut. 

 

She turns her attention to her own carry-on, reaching down to draw it onto her lap. Unzipping it, she draws out the same yellow folder that Cutter had dropped on her desk the day before. The pen and lipstick have long been safely secured inside her purse, but the mission files are still safely inside. She pulls them out. The corners of her mouth turn down as she flicks over it lightly, a sour taste burning on her tongue as her eyes fall on that last line again:  _ Partner(s): Major Warren J Kepler. _ She hadn’t expected  _ partner _ to be quite so literal. Turning back to the top of the dossier, she goes over the mission information in detail, this time taking her time to process each facet of the mission. 

 

_ Target: Mr Damian Horstsborough. _ A former wealthy banker for Investments Mutual, which in turn was a former partner in a venture agreement with Goddard Futuristics, Hortsborough had quit his job not soon after the deal had gone sour, thereby managing to escape the resulting wrath that rained down on Investments’ top tier staff. This alone wouldn’t have made Mr Damian enough of a target for Cutter to dispatch two of Goddard’s finest undercover agents, not to mention dragging out of them out of retirement (mostly) metaphorically kicking and screaming. As Rachel reads further, it quickly becomes clear that Hortsborough is one of those rare specimens of intelligent idiots, the kind Goddard Futuristics will only employ for missions doomed to go wrong. In a move far too sudden to be coincidence, he’d started working at Osiris, an up-and-coming tech company who was and still is perfectly positioned to become Goddard’s next (and only) big rival. The venture deal, Rachel knows, as head of Special Projects, was for a piece of tech so specialized and representing such a leap in the abilities of modern science that even she had had to have the details slowly revealed to her on a need-to-know basis. It was, in terms of market value,  _ big _ \--it’s rare that an undertaking needs so much capital that  _ Goddard Futuristics _ can’t fund it alone. 

 

So what went wrong? Rachel represses the shudder that tries to ripple down her spine, not from the cool air that floods the cabin as the plane prepares for takeoff, but from the memory of the voice of Miranda Pryce, syrupy sweet and cold to the bone when she’d interrogated Rachel, and then Rachel’s second-in-command, a sweet girl named Elissa ( _probably_ too _sweet,_ _in retrospect,_ Rachel thinks,) and then the head engineers on the project, shaking in their boots as they answered in quavering voices to a face the two of them had most likely hoped never to come in close quarters with. Come to think of it, she hasn’t seen either of them around the office in ages, though, then again, she hasn’t really had any purpose to go down to the engineering wings in months. She privately is sure that at least _one_ of them is still alive. The chances of them both surviving Pryce’s wrath? Not anywhere near quite as high. Good assistant managers are hard to come by. So are good learning experiences. Good engineers are not. _But I digress_. When it all came down to it, a key aspect of the plans had been stolen. Not physically-- every copy of every plan was perfectly intact, and every security measure perfectly in place. There would have been no reason to suspect anything had it not been for a red flag raised by an email sent by one of the lower engineers: Addressed to an initially untraceable address inside Investment Mutual, detailed instructions, containing so much precision that they might as well have been scans of multiple key pages from one of the plans, had been sent, encrypted as homestyle breakfast recipes. Said engineer had been...taken care of, and all Investment Mutual servers wiped (resulting in a nationwide crisis that no one could properly explain,) but it hadn’t been until recently that the addressee had apparently been found out. Rachel doesn’t need two guesses to confirm what the next line of the dossier tells her: It was Hortsborough.

 

She sits back a bit after this, turning the facts over in her head.  _ It’s unsettling that Cutter would want me, specifically for this mission, especially considering the grilling I got.  _ Or maybe it isn’t-- she sneaks another glance sideways at Kepler, who’s now staring blankly ahead, no doubt turning over the same conclusion she’s come to in his mind as Jacobi stares at him from his left. Cutter’s sent her, Rachel Young, retired from active duty, the only (as far as she knows) surviving and properly functioning person sent back from Doctor Pryce’s interrogation sessions, on a mission that touches the heart of her involvement with the corresponding fiasco, with a man who harbors so much unrestrained hate for her and so much loyalty to the company that’s shaped him that he wouldn’t hesitate for a millisecond to pull the trigger, if he thinks Cutter would approve. This isn’t just a mission. It’s a test, far more dangerous than any other she’s had to face before in her time at Goddard, by sheer virtue of the company she’s being forced to keep. Even the marriage aspect of the mission might well be--  _ is _ \-- a ploy to keep her close to Kepler, within arm’s--  _ firing _ \-- reach. Jacobi’s presence, too, could be telling. For all she knows, he  _ could _ be here for experience, for a lesson in what happens to you if you don’t straighten up and fly right. Or he could be motivation, someone to show off to, another reason for Kepler to go in for the kill the minute he smells something off. There’s a darker possibility, but she doesn’t dwell on that long. If it comes to that,  _ which it won’t, _ she reminds herself, she doubts he’ll have the gumption to do it. 

 

She’s unsettled the rest of the flight.  _ It’s one thing to be innocent, _ she thinks.  _ It’s another to convince Goddard Futuristics of it. _

 

* * *

 

They land. They stretch. Jacobi droops forward as if he’s going to drop any moment. 

 

“He didn’t sleep the whole eight hours,” Kepler confides in her. Rachel a) wonders how he knows this, considering she’d caught Kepler himself snoozing, and b) hopes he’s ready to catch and carry him when he  _ does _ fall, because  _ she _ sure as hell isn’t going to do it. Astoundingly, Jacobi manages to stay upright all through baggage claim and the rental car service, and it’s only once they’re all bundled in, Jacobi stuffed in the backseat along with the luggage, that Rachel thinks to ask where they’re staying.

 

“Sunrise Inn. It’s a chain, about thirteen minutes away.”

 

“Not on the Strip? I thought this was supposed to be a  _ vacation _ ?”

 

Kepler sighs as if he’s been wondering the same thing, but he backs up Goddard like the loyal greyhound he is. 

 

“The Strip is expensive.”

 

“Goddard’s loaded,” Rachel retorts, “especially when it comes to their finest agent.” 

 

“I never asked for any--”

 

“I wasn’t talking about you.” Her tone is pointed, pointed enough for Kepler to glance over his shoulder at Jacobi, who’s out like a light.  _ Unfortunately saving him another blow to his ego.  _

 

“And besides, this will inconvenience so much more of the operation, what with travel time and parking the car, and making sure absolutely everything is ready to go every morning--”

 

“There are less cameras in the suburbs,” he says quietly, and she has no response.

 

_ Less people to find a body, too, _ neither of them say.

 

No amount of shaking manages to stir Daniel Jacobi from his sleep, so Kepler hoists him into his arms with minimal grunting, leaving Rachel to drag three suitcases and various misshapen carry-ons.

 

“You know,” she says, in attempt to restore the light air from earlier, “You don’t have to carry him bridal style.  _ We’re  _ the married ones.”

 

“ _ You _ carry him, then,” he says, but she notices his fingers tighten around Jacobi’s body.

 

They check in, and the girl at the counter is far too bright and peppy for nine in the evening in a sleepy town fifteen minutes from Vegas, but she also doesn’t comment on the various sizes and shapes of their bags or Jacobi, who looks more dead than alive at this point, in Kepler’s grip. Their room is on the third floor and the elevator is broken, and Rachel curses her heels and the back of Kepler’s head all the way up. Somehow, they manage to make their way up without tripping or dropping anything or anyone, and Rachel unlocks the first room with a dexterity that’s been evading her for all her years at what passes for a desk job within Goddard. 

 

Kepler maneuvers inside and drops Jacobi on the noticeably twin-size bed. Rachel shoves his suitcase in after Kepler comes out, and the door falls shuts after them as they leave.

 

It hits them both as Rachel reaches to open the second room, as it opens and they see the double bed, and two thousand eighty miles away Marcus Cutter smiles at his desk. They’re both exhausted, and nearly without inhibitions, but, as Rachel points out, the key to Jacobi’s room is still in perfect working order, no matter how small the bed is.

 

“ _ We’re _ the married ones,” he says, echoing her from minutes ago, and the weak smile on his face tells her he isn’t going to let her argue her way out of this, “and besides, we  _ all _ need to get proper sleep if we want to get this over with as quickly as possible.”

 

“I don’t see a ring,” she says, “and with this arrangement, the only person getting any proper sleep is Daniel Jacobi,” but she pushes past him into the room. For the briefest flash of a second, she considers locking him outside;  _ An accident, I’ll call it, just the slip of some fingers and really soundproof rooms;  _ but lingers long enough on debating whether the costs outweigh the benefits for him to make his way inside after her.

 

* * *

 

It’s a terrible night. Kepler steals all the blankets. Rachel contemplates kicking him off the bed. The next morning Kepler wakes up to a very loud alarm and an even angrier face.

 

“Never again.”

 

“Wha-?”   
  


“Never again. Tomorrow, you sleep in Jacobi’s room.”

 

Kepler shrugs on a weak smile, then buries his head back in the pillows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also me: okay so a reasonable chapter length is 1300 words... no, wait, 1700 words, yeah that's more like it...  
> also me, or the bitch in me: hoooo let's take this chapter you were stuck on and **go hard**.


	4. wake up wake up on a saturday night good thing to know everything's gonna go wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOL IT'S ALMOST BEEN A YEAR SINCE THIS FIC CAME OUT anyways apparently eleven whole people are subscribed to this thing and also i love rachel so i'm going to try and bring this back [that one sweat smile emoji]
> 
> i'll admit this chapter is somewhat of a transition chapter as i figure out how to move forward with this fic

Jacobi would have killed to see the state of Kepler’s hair in the morning, Rachel knows, but that’s neither here nor there as she and he race their way to presentable completion. Even this is a competition, Rachel digging her elbow into Kepler’s torso as they stand side by side in front of the sink, brushing, spitting, rinsing, repeat, until enough time ticks by and they’re rushing to get out the door because “a good breakfast is essential to a good mission, Miss Young.”

 

Sleeplessness has made her even more petty than usual, so she turns her head, flashes him her most  _ winning _ smile, and says, in a voice that emphasizes the  _ drop _ in  _ dewdrop _ , 

 

“Mrs,  _ honey. _ ”

 

Considering how early it is, she can’t help but give him credit when he doesn’t make any movements that could even loosely interpreted as flinching, instead turning that simpering smile right back on her with an,

 

“Of course,  _ darling. _ ”

 

They hold each other’s gaze for an uncomfortably long period of time before Kepler, without asking, leans across to grab the hand towel hanging on the rack by her face. She breaks eye contact, then, to see what he’s reaching for-- and immediately curses herself for doing so.

 

Kepler- 1. Rachel- 0.

The towel snaps her in the cheek when he tosses it back.

 

She grits her teeth as they both try to exit through the door at the same time, neither of them budging as the other presses their shoulder into the other so hard it hurts. They look at each other out of the corners of their eyes, clear stubbornness in their eyes, and if the maid on that floor happened to pass by at that exact moment, guarded intrigue in their eyes shielded by the towering stack of towels in their arms, neither of them notice. Just as Rachel wonders if they’ll spend the entirety of the mission in this doorway, and if that’s cause enough for Cutter to order Kepler shot, or demoted, or  _ something, _ Kepler shifts, suddenly, with an intake of breath too quiet for anyone other than Rachel to make out, and Rachel, with fierce determination, elbows him in the gut just as she brings her stiletto heel down on his foot and pushes through the door.

 

Jacobi winces as Kepler lets out a curse so loud it’s a wonder the three of them aren’t being ejected from the premises. Rachel lets a subtle smile curve across her lips.

 

“Oops.”

 

Kepler huffs, and she finally lets him through.

Now the score is even.

 

Breakfast is uneventful, if only because Kepler doesn’t let them sit and enjoy the lukewarm victuals the Sunrise Inn has apathetically laid out. Rachel at least manages to stuff a couple yogurts and spoons in her purse, but the unfortunate Jacobi doesn’t manage to take even one bite of his muffin before Kepler drags him out to the car. She rolls her eyes as Jacobi, spluttering, drops it in its entirety to crumble all over the cramped parking lot. Deliberately stepping around the muffin chunks, she stalks to the car and once again claims the passenger seat. Jacobi shoots her a  _ look _ , but doesn’t argue. She tosses him a yogurt in compensation, which he catches, opens, then, failing to find a spoon, squeezes into his mouth like a gogurt.  _ Animal. _

 

She makes sure to very obviously use both of her spoons as she eats, making eye contact with Jacobi in the rear view mirror. He makes a face.

 

“So who is this Horton-hears-a-who guy anyways?” he asks, and Rachel turns her eyes to Kepler:  _ he knows? _

 

Kepler just shrugs, and Rachel narrows her eyes. They drive like that in silence for a few moments, her eyes doing their best to burn holes into his unnecessarily brightly-printed shirt, then, failing that, hurling every curse she can think of his way.

 

They might have stayed locked in that state for all eternity were it not for Jacobi’s loud cough from the backseat.

 

“....So?”

Kepler grins, adjusts the rearview mirror until it’s his turn to lock eyes with Jacobi.

 

“I’m sure  _ Mrs Kepler _ would be more than happy to go over the details with you.”

 

Rachel elbows him, hoping to get him to swerve at least a little (the road is empty; he wouldn’t be hitting anyone important, not that that wouldn’t be the fastest way for her to have an excuse to leave him behind,) but his arm is infuriatingly solid and the most she can manage to procur is a snicker from Jacobi, nowhere near worth the dull throbbing beginning to well up in her left elbow.

 

“What’s wrong,  _ dear? _ ”

 

She grinds her teeth with such ferocity it’s surprising the entire city of Las Vegas, which is beginning to appear on the horizon, can’t hear each  _ click _ of her teeth sliding against each other.

 

“Cat got your tongue?”

 

“That’s a dangerous statement to throw my way,” she murmurs, and the barest ghost of a smile flickers across her lips before it again disappears and she takes a deep breath, followed by a sigh.

 

“Damian  _ Hortsborough _ is your run-of-the-mill nerd asshole who thought he could get one over Goddard Futuristics,” she says, eyes flickering to Jacobi. Is that just her imagination or does he look a little pale? “So we’re reminding him who pulls all the strings.” Yep. Definitely paler. _ Interesting.  _ Maybe this mission isn’t just about her and Kepler after all.

 

She reaches to adjust the rear view mirror so she can get a better read on Jacobi’s suddenly closed body language, but it’s at that very moment that Kepler wrenches the mirror over to his side, and their combined tensions cause the mirror to bend and stretch, and finally, with a (underwhelming, in Rachel’s professional opinion)  _ crack! _ , splits and falls to the floor with a somewhat symbolic thud.

 

“Nice,” says Jacobi from the backseat, and both Kepler and Rachel turn to fix him with identical icy glares.

 

“ _ Shut up. _ ”

 

In retrospect, she thinks, maybe one of them ought to have kept their eyes on the road-- and, more specifically, on the accelerometer. Personally, she’s not against a little speeding (her work in spacecraft development certainly is proof of that,) but the wailing slowly gaining on them is a jarring reminder that  _ some _ people mind when a car’s going around thirty over the speed limit (but then again, who  _ doesn’t _ speed on the freeway?)

 

“ _ Nice.” _

 

***

They’re lucky, she supposes, that Kepler’s the one driving when they get stopped. They’re getting off relatively easy, but then again that’s what happens when you have a man like Kepler chatting up the police officer. If she or Jacobi had been the one in the driver’s seat… things definitely wouldn’t have been as pleasant. (For the cop, in the end, if she’s being honest. They’re still  _ Goddard Futuristics  _ personnel, after all.) Kepler’s words float in to her through the open window and she shakes her head to clear her thoughts.

 

“...and that’s my wife.”

 

“That’s your wife?” 

 

The voice sounds skeptical, and Rachel scowls. It’s one thing for her and Kepler to hate their faux-marriage; it’s quite another for some meaningless stranger to begin to question it. At the very least, their cover needs to stay solid. Luckily, Kepler seems to be thinking along the same lines, because his voice adopts a curious edge as he says, voice turned up to Maximum liquid gold,

 

“Sure is, officer. Twenty years this month.”

 

Rachel chokes on her tongue.  _ Twenty years? Exactly how old are you making me out to be? Ass.  _

In the backseat, Jacobi does his utmost best to hold in the laugh bubbling up through his throat.

 

“High school sweethearts, her and I,” Kepler continues, and Rachel feels a wave of nausea roil through her. Just imagining Kepler as anything younger than Captain takes an immense amount of effort, and she can’t imagine meeting the man that early on in life and liking his company enough to even stay friends for twenty years, let alone going along with  _ marriage _ .

 

Fortunately (or unfortunately) the officer seems to accept this, and peers into the car, eyes landing on Jacobi.

 

“And who’s this young man?” 

 

Jacobi looks appropriately startled out of his laughter, and it’s Rachel’s turn to let her lips twitch. 

 

Kepler, too, is caught off-guard, though later he claims he was focused on keeping the cop away from their stash of extremely illegal technology in the trunk, caught off-guard enough, in fact, to blurt out 

 

“Son!”

 

Both Rachel and Jacobi give him the stink-eye. He catches Jacobi’s expression and swallows; Rachel prays he comes up with a better cover-  _ this isn’t 1997’s  _ Cinderella _ after all- _ and to his dubious credit he  _ does  _ attempt to backtrack:

 

“...in-law.”

 

Rachel groans and lays her head in her palm. Jacobi, she just knows, is sitting in some form of shock.

 

“You two have a daughter?” The cop is as surprised as they all feel, and for the tiniest fraction of a second, Rachel desperately wants Kepler to flash the guy that trademark smile of his and say “no, we have a  _ son,” _ if only so she can enjoy the look of pure horror that would undoubtedly flash across the officer’s face. She allows herself a small grin at the thought, and Jacobi makes a small noise, assuming, most likely, that she’s enjoying his current situation.

 

Which, all things considered, wouldn’t exactly be incorrect.

 

The brief moment of vicious happiness is just that- brief- as Kepler shakes his head and continues with a brief speech waxing poetic about their absolutely real daughter-

 

“We’re very proud of Gertrude, all things considered,” he says, and both Rachel and Jacobi turn to face each other with twin expressions of absolute horror.

 

“We were just-  _ thrilled-”  _ and does his voice jump one or two semitones there? “-when she and Daniel here got engaged-” and it’s Jacobi’s turn to gag- “...oh, she’s working at NASA! We’re all  _ mighty _ proud of her- isn’t that right honey?” and Rachel is forced to tear herself away from wallowing in mutual sorrow with Jacobi in order to flash a smile and nod, give a “that’s right, dear,” loathing every syllable of the words she forces out of her mouth.

 

Her heart beats just a little bit quicker for the briefest fraction of a second; this is their first real interaction as a couple with a stranger, she realizes (the hotel hadn’t counted; they’d barely glanced at them when they’d checked in,) and she prays her voice sounds just dreamy enough to pass as vaguely removed wife.

 

The moment passes as Kepler continues, “she’s working on flight trajectories and artificial intelligence for space exploration,” and the officer pretends to follow as Kepler goes into unnecessary, completely inaccurate detail.

 

“She even has a cooler job than me,” Jacobi gripes, and Rachel pats his arm with as much patronization as she can imbue her hand with.

 

“At this rate, she’s doing half of work in the Goddard Futuristics’ space department. Be a good husband and support your wife, instead of moaning about how much better than you she is.”

 

Jacobi groans. 

 

“But does she  _ have _ to be this much better?”

 

“Of course,” she says, with a grin. “She’s  _ my  _ kid.”

 

She says this just as Kepler repeats “Gertrude,” and this time they both groan on cue.

 

***

 

_ “Gertrude?” _ Rachel hisses once they’re back in the car and on the freeway.

 

“Is there a problem?”   
  


“None at all,  _ sweetheart _ . I was just wondering why we’re suddenly living in the _ nineteenth century! _ ‘Gertrude and Daniel,’ what a  _ lovely _ couple.”

 

“Um, I object,” calls Jacobi, but they both ignore him.

 

“Of course, I should have known,  _ Warren _ .” She lets out a short, sharp laugh. “Was Gertrude the name on the backburner for  _ you? _ ”

 

Kepler’s grip tightens on the steering wheel, but she doesn’t notice his sudden tension.

 

“I want a divorce,” she says, and his voice is strangely monotonous while remaining acerbic as he says, at his usual pace of molasses, “Miss Young, there is nothing I would like more.”

 

She  _ hmphs _ and turns to face the window. 

 

“Wait, do I have to pretend to be straight too now?”

 

If Kepler makes any sort of eye contact or other attempt at communication with Jacobi, Rachel doesn’t notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for bearing with me; if you follow along with my work, the ausoe should update soon & i've got a couple projects in the works [eyes emoji]
> 
> also hot take 1997 _Cinderella_ is best _Cinderella._
> 
> rt if you support gertrude


	5. oops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mistakes are made and so is a cameo

“Your name is Eric Huang,” Kepler’s voice booms, and Rachel snickers in the corner and mutters something about ‘roleplay.’

 

“You’re the twenty-seven year old son of Guangli “Gary” Huang, a millionaire with just enough money to set his son up with a future of minimal effort, but not rich enough to get noticed. You have a wife-”

 

“Gertrude,” says Jacobi, quickly- _too quickly?_

 

“Gertrude,” Kepler nods. “The two of you got married a year ago. You went to Costa Rica for your honeymoon. You both went ziplining and you threw up.”

 

“Is that... _detail_ really necessary?”

 

“Absolutely.” Kepler’s voice is firm, but there’s an edge to his voice- or the lack of one- that keeps Jacobi on the fence as to whether he’s joking or not. “You redefined the phrase ‘projectile vomit.’”

 

Jacobi groans, but cuts himself off once he notices Kepler’s glare.

 

“This week is the first anniversary of that drastic mistake, and you’re here in Vegas to lose your lunch-- and your money-- in a hopefully more dignified way.”

 

Normally, this would be Jacobi’s cue to groan again, but something about what Kepler’s just said catches his attention.

 

“We’re gambling?”

 

“ _You’re_ gambling,” Rachel corrects, peeling her face away from the window to fix Jacobi with an even stare. “Try not to screw it up.”

 

“ _How_ would I even-”

 

“You graduated MIT. We both know you’ve seen _21_.”

 

Jacobi exhales.

 

“What, all of a sudden you don’t want me to win?”

 

Kepler steps in.

 

“When you’re gambling your own money, Jacobi, you can risk being beat to a bloody pulp by security all you like. As long as Goddard’s funding your fun, you’ve got a job to do.”

 

“...Yes, sir.”

 

“That’s the spirit.” Kepler grins, and Jacobi meets his eyes briefly before looking away.

 

“If you two are done,” drawls Rachel, and Kepler doesn’t bother glaring at her before he flips Jacobi a slim, matte black card with the words ‘Eric J Huang,” embossed in gold.

 

“Your funds,” he explains, before Jacobi can ask.

 

“How much?”

 

“What?”

 

“How much can I lose?”

 

A smirk flits across Rachel’s lips.

 

“If you’re asking, not enough.”

 

***

 

“ _Alright, I’m in position,”_ comes Jacobi’s voice, staticky over the earpiece. Rachel winces as the crackles and pops snap against her eardrum a little too forcefully for comfort.

 

“This isn’t a spy movie, Mr Jacobi. Just gamble, lose money, look like you’re having the time of your life, and hope that our favorite man this side of the Mississippi takes an interest in you.”

 

“ _Yeah, well, what about you? The two of you aren’t exactly… subtle.”_

 

Rachel looks over at Kepler, sitting next to her at the bar, a shot of whiskey in front of him. They’re sitting within eyeshot of Jacobi, at least for now, but the black of Rachel’s dress does nothing to mute the parrot greens, electric blues, and neon pinks of Kepler’s excuse for a shirt. The longer she looks at it, the more intensely the ring on her finger begins to itch, and she turns her seat forty-five degrees to the left until he’s out of her line of sight. Kepler’s hand moves to cover hers, and the resulting wave of nausea that threatens to roll over her is almost strong enough for the bartender to feel.

 

“Careful, now,” Kepler says in a low voice, and she sighs and lets her hand relax.

 

“Relax your shoulders, Warren. You look like you’re about to rob the casino.”

 

Kepler removes his hand. She doesn’t have to turn to feel the look undoubtedly on his face.

 

Her victory is short lived, however; Kepler glances at his watch and murmurs “it’s almost time” in her general direction. Someone with sharp enough eyes would notice a bored-looking man in a sharp suit that, while exactly fitted to his figure, looks entirely out of place on his frame, scratch his ear, furrow his brow, and motion to one of the casino staff nearby.

 

“He’s on the move.”

 

Rachel watches him as he tracks Jacobi’s motion across the floor towards the exclusive area where he’s being led.

 

“Yes. I can see. I have eyes.”

 

Kepler scowls, hand curling into a loose fist at his side.

 

Rachel rolls said eyes.

 

“He’ll be _fine_. Besides, he’s expecting you in his ear. If something goes wrong, it’ll be your fault, not his.”

 

“Thank you for your concern.”

 

“This is why I don’t bother with second-in-commands. Too messy.”

 

All she gets in response is a snort.

 

“How many have you been through in the last few months again, Warren?”

 

“He’s not my second-in-command.”

 

“ _Yet_. Unless there’s something you’d like to share with the class?”

 

“ _No_.”

 

“Mm. Then get in there, do your goddamn job, and let me have a couple hours to myself before I have to remember I’m married to you. And,” she adds, as an afterthought, “Change that god-awful shirt before I kill you myself.”

 

She smiles to herself as Kepler stalks off without another word and turns to the bartender to order another drink.

 

It’s peacefully quiet on her front- or at least, as quiet as the inside of the MGM can be during peak tourist hours- as she sips her cocktail, sunglasses idly propped on her head as she scrolls through her phone. From afar, she seems like a typical tourist, albeit more single than she realizes she’s projecting, ring on her finger or no. Whatever the status of _that_ part of her disguise, the earpiece hidden in the curl of her outer ear stays unnoticed as people come and go around her.

 

She takes another sip of the drink and wrinkles her nose; normally it would be too early in the day for alcohol, but with the company she’s been keeping so far, this is her only window to unwind before their plan really kicks off.

 

Maybe that’s why when the well-manicured woman with the intelligent eyes slips into the seat beside her and gives her an appreciative once-over, she doesn’t put a stop to the attention.

 

“Trouble in paradise?”

 

Rachel turns to eye her new companion.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

The woman laughs. “My bad. I couldn’t help but overhear you and- your husband?- earlier. Seemed like quite the argument.”

 

“You get that from our conversation?”

 

“Conversation? No, I was too far away to overhear anything; don’t worry. But the way you tensed up when he tried to take your hand? Either you’re being pressured into this whole marriage thing, or you two had _some_ fight.”

 

 _Oh_. Rachel curses herself. The woman’s voice is light, and her laugh carefree enough, but her eyes hold a tinge of worry that belie the easy manner with which she asks the question. She’s got to work fast to fix this one.

 

“Sharp eyes,” she says, doing her best to turn up her charm- _which isn’t hard considering,_ she thinks appreciatively as she shifts to face the woman head-on. “But no, you were right the second time. He wants to stay another weekend, but, well, I’ve never been a Vegas kind of girl.”

 

The woman nods, expression clearing. “I can understand that. Not one for gambling?”

 

“Mm…” Rachel pretends to think about it for a second, lets her voice slide a little lower, as if she’s giving away a precious secret. “I prefer to play games I know I’ll win.”

 

“Come on. You never wanted to take a risk or two?”

 

“Only if it’s a risk for the other party.”

 

The woman grins and signals to the bartender to pour them another round.

 

“I never got your name?”

 

Rachel lets a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.

 

“Rachel.”

 

The woman sticks out a hand.

 

“Tatiana.”

 

***

 

Tatiana, Rachel finds out, is a very intelligent woman. _Almost too intelligent to be safe,_ she thinks, as her fingers dance over her wrist.

 

She’s a reporter, which Rachel of all people can respect, and when Rachel asks her what story she’s investigating, she just smiles and shakes her head, even as her thumb rubs the inside of Rachel’s wrist.

 

This is another thing Rachel has learned about Tatiana Sobrero: now that she knows Rachel’s mysterious husband isn’t hurting her, she doesn’t seem to care much about his existence at all. Not that Rachel minds. Her voice is naturally deeper than you might expect from looking at her, and it’s just attractive enough for Rachel to have to remind herself that she’s on a mission. _He really does get to have all the fun,_ she gripes, knowing full well just how much Kepler must be enjoying his time alone as the voice in Jacobi’s head.

 

“Penny for your thoughts?”

 

Rachel blinks, snapping back to the present.

 

“Nothing you’d be interested in,” she lies, trying to play off her racing mind as mere spaciness. It doesn’t work.

 

“I’m _very_ interested in _you_. Which, by default means…”

 

“Do you want to get out of here?”

 

It’s a bad idea, Rachel knows, even as she cuts Sobrero off, but it’s her last hour or so of freedom and by god, she’s not going to waste it. Sobrero arches an eyebrow, the question clearly visible in her expression.

 

Rachel shrugs, the motion alien on her shoulders.

 

“He won’t be back for at least an hour. I’ve got time to kill.”

 

Tatiana shakes her head, smiling as she takes another sip of her drink.

 

“I thought you don’t like to take risks.”

 

“I don’t.” Rachel mirrors her motion. “I told you, I only play games I know I’ll win.”

 

“Awfully confident of you.”

 

“I’m open to challengers.”

 

Neither of them looks back after they pay the check.

 

***

 

Rachel is certain that the buzzing in her right ear isn’t normal. From beside her comes Tatiana’s voice, pleasantly warm:

 

“Turn it oooff.”

 

Rachel blinks, still momentarily disoriented.

 

“My phone’s off.”

 

“Is it your husband?” An arm snakes its way around Rachel’s waist. “‘Cause he can fuck right off.”

 

The smile on Rachel’s lips disappears as quickly as it arrives.

 

_Kepler. Shit._

 

Doing her best to keep from jostling Tatiana, she lifts her hand to her ear and taps the earpiece on.

 

“ _Miss Young if you don’t answer right now I swear to every monster thriving in that pit of Hell you were spawned in, I’ll-”_

 

“ _What is it_ ,” she hisses, trying to keep her voice as low as possible.

 

“ _Well look who finally decided to show up to work today. Where the_ _hell_ _are you?”_

 

Rachel takes a guilty look around her and decides to counter his question with one of her own.

 

“What are you calling me this early for? Jacobi’s not due for another fifteen minutes. Unless, of course, you’ve managed to spectacularly screw this up?”

 

“Hmm? Screw what up?” comes Tatiana’s voice against the back of her neck. Rachel inhales.

 

“ _Who’s that?”_ comes Kepler’s voice, sharp over the frequency, and Rachel goes cold as she remembers one of her theories as for why Cutter had sent them both together on this particular trip.

 

“Where’s Jacobi?”

 

“ _Where are_ you _?”_

 

It’s only now that she notices that Kepler’s breathing is labored, as if he’s running, or lifting something heavy, or-

 

“Shit. What happened to him?”

 

Kepler’s voice is dangerous when he responds, and Rachel’s heart sinks further.

 

 _Can’t have one nice thing,_ she curses, as she slips on her shoes and slams out the door before Tatiana can open her mouth.

 

“Where should I meet you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can date this fic by the time:bombs cameo sooo

**Author's Note:**

> henlo it's me, and i'm very excited for this fic which atm has exactly 0 planning besides rachel and kepler are forced into a fake marriage for a mission and squabble the entire way through ft. daniel jacobi pining his way through vegas.
> 
> catch me @ justasmalltownai on tumblr :eye emoji:


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